Empire Philharmonic
by calebaren
Summary: Tony's on oboe. Steve's on timpani. Thor's on horn. Bruce's on piccolo. Clint's on cello. Natasha's on bassoon. Enter the Empire Philharmonic, New York's rising symphony orchestra, in the world-renowned Carnegie Hall. But although these prodigies are skilled in their respective instruments, not so much in their relationships with each other. Lots of classical music!


**A/N: Try listening to this (tinyurl. com****/d2lq5sx****) playlist ****before/after/during your reading. It'll help establish the context, so you actually kind of understand what I'm talking about!**

**A/N: DISCLAIMER: Please PM me if you play _any _of these instruments and would like to tell me more, either if I wrote something inaccurate or you would just like to add some input. I'm a violin/pianist, so I'm really not familiar with any of these instruments. I'm very prone to mistakes, as you all know.**

* * *

"I'm leaving. Have a good rest of your life. I won't call you back."

Tony pulled the rumpled shirt fully down over his head, head pounding. He wasn't even that drunk last night. The other man groaned, rolled onto the floor, and continued snoring, sheet wrapped around his naked waist.

He grabbed his wallet off the immaculate counter and threaded his belt lying limp on the ground through the loops and gently closed the door behind him, wincing at the loud grating screeches that all doors in Brooklyn make.

Daylight shot into his eyes like a flu vaccine. He winced from the sharp stabs of pain driving into his eyes and the crashing cymbals of normal New York traffic, of kids screaming and running to school and the occasional police siren or tire squeals. He flagged down a cab, the bright yellow piercing his skull like a botched lobotomy.

"200 Park and East 45th. Make it fast," he commanded, tossing a five over to expedite the trip. "Oh wait, no, I need to stop at 42nd and Madison."

He reached home a quarter after nine, the sun nearing its zenith. Tony trod up the stairs, flipping through the piles of mail he picked up from his PO box. Spam, spam, coupons, spam, long-distance relative he really didn't care about, paycheck, politics, bills, bills, spam, spam, spam. A forlorn trashcan on the landing accepted most of the junk before he walked into his apartment.

It was sparsely furnished. There were two windows, one soaring over the chair reclining on the floor, a tiny table standing guard on its left side with a lamp stacked atop new magazines, but with coffee cup rings nonetheless. Another, less assertive window hid behind thick curtains in the bedroom, a small room up a few steps capable of holding a full-sized bed, a night stand, a desk and chair, and a laundry hamper with little room to spare. The kitchen led directly from the sitting area (which led in turn from the door) and was not fully furnished—a tiny fridge and a microwave, a stove, and no oven. The need to bake never arose in Tony. He had more than enough to focus on.

But the most important part of the apartment lies in the little corner of the sitting area over a magnificent view of New York. The river gleamed, little sapphires of light that hit the floor just above his. Tony got the brilliance, but not the glare. The other boroughs stretched out before him like a map; Brooklyn over there, midtown right below him. This is what he pays four grand a month for—this little sliver of opulence in an otherwise unsatisfying and frugal life. In the spot right over a glorious vision of the Hudson, a folding stand overladen with loose sheet music stood erect next to a low bookshelf teeming with scores and books and covered with an inch-thick of old oboe reeds. Sitting in the shade of the bookcase, sheltered from the sun, was his open case, his disassembled oboe lying clean and expectant.

Ten to nine. That gave him six hours to work out this hangover and hopefully not bust a reed.

* * *

He stretched his sore back and took apart the oboe, running a cloth through each section, siphoning the moisture dry, afterwards placing it back into its case and shutting it securely, reed back in its case to dry. Mozart and _Le Tomb_. All great for him on a normal day with a good five hours of sleep, but not when he's up till four banging his brains out with some stranger dude that he picked up in some club in Queens. He was a hot son of a bitch, and overwhelmingly polite, but still. Not normal Tony Stark behavior. The Tony Stark he recalled from the good days had girls (and guys) hanging off his arm, waiting to be called upon in some moment of desire on his part. Never had he had to prowl the clubs at night, like some old cougar. Tony cringed at the thought.

He checked his watch. 2:38. He needed to be at the audition at 3:15, his slot starts at half past. The audition was in the Carnegie Tower. And it was cold, so he couldn't walk. Rising up and latching the case securely shut, Tony stretched, yawned, and coughed, sliding the case into his backpack. The keys jangled as he locked the door behind him, a deck of scores cushioning a sleek black box in his backpack.

* * *

Tony arrived fifteen minutes early. His fingers reflexively twitched out fingerings on the subway, strange jitters dancing in the air. To the untrained eye, he was practicing an air piano. To the trained eye… well, it still looked like piano. You can't really tell. But he still got annoyed when people asked him if he was a pianist. He missed a beat in Mozart. He played it from the beginning again. He found the notes with a stutter and continued on. Tony filed that spot (measure 85) away for memory.

The subway rolled into the stop. _Carnegie Hall_, the grating non-gender voice crackled. Tony hopped off with a few others, only one person dragging a huge bass case off the train. Another he spotted with a brown, tattered bassoon base, a large trench coat protecting the player from the biting cold.

Tony shouldered pass the swarms of tourists coming down from the hall above and punched the elevator, his audition confirmation in his gloved hand tucked in his pocket. He reached the entrance hall, all decadence and glory, and pushed into a side door, throwing his hat into his backpack. The narrow hallway led to the backstage area, and then to a smaller reception area, for the musicians to access the Tower above the main hall. Guests to the Tower used a different door without all the grunge of the service hallway. Guests and violinists, that is.

"You're here for the Empire Phil audition?"

"Yeah."

"Sheet?"

"Here."

"Hang on. I just need to scan this… okay, you're good. Oboe, right?"

"Yup."

"Oh, audition list is killer this year."

"Isn't it always?"

Tony half-smiled, the receptionist handing him a key card. He slid the card into the slot by the elevator buttons and waited. The numbers segued from sixty down right past the fifties, to the forties, quick stop in thirties, and paused for a minute on twenty-three. Audition floor. The elevator sped right back down, the tens, and finally single digits. A small amount of people poured from the lift, most of the space taken up by cellos, horns, and a bass clarinet, and a violist thrown in for good measure. Tony heard a stream of "good lucks" as they passed by him.

He tapped the twenty-third floor and heard the ancient and rickety lift ratchet him upwards. Old posters advertising productions of the Ring cycle,an old candy wrapper, and tacky carpet were the only decorations in the lift. An office worker hopped on at the twenty-first. The lift bell tolled once, and deposited him at the end of a short line to the registration desk. Bassoon Trench Coat was there, but the coat lie draped over the back of a waiting chair. Tony could see a shocking head of flaming red, wearing a simple yet elegant evening gown that suggested sophistication hidden earlier by the coat. Tony gulped. Pre-audition ritual time. _My name is Tony—Antony Stark. I'll be playing... _Dammit, he forgot the pieces. _Mozart's Oboe Concerto, first movement… and the second—first movement of Ravel's _Le Tombeau de Couperin. Wait, did he say it right? Was that how you say it?

"What's your name, hon?"

"Huh?"

The old woman smiling up at him caught him unaware. The line had moved during his mental audition, and the Bassoon Trench Coat smiled thinly at him. She was insanely pretty. And she knew it. He swallowed again.

"Tony Stark."

"On…"

"O-oboe."

"Great. Could I see your sheet?"

Tony handed her the sheet.

"You didn't bring your own accompanist?"

"No, the website said that one would be available at the site."

"Yup. You have—"

"Yes, yes, I have piano scores."

"Okay, great. There are two more auditions before you, and someone will call you when it's your slot. We're running about five minutes behind schedule, so it might be a while. Take a seat over there if you like. Cup?"

Tony accepted the cup of water and pulled out his reed case from the side pocket of the backpack, dropping his reed inside. Before playing, the reed must be soaked (sometimes with saliva, if he's really rushed for time) for about a minute, to loosen the cane. The old receptionist gestured to the chair next to Bassoon Trench Coat. Gripping the loose end of his backpack strap tightly and winding it around his finger, he took a seat on the very edge, ready to run if necessary. He gingerly extracted his case from the backpack and unlatched the top, running the joints over with cork grease before twisting the sections together. Bassoon lady looked scary.

"Oboe," she said, flatly. Tony looked up.

"Yup."

"Pieces?"

"Mozart, and Ravel. _Le Tombeau de Couperin_."

"First and first?"

"Yes."

"Ouch."

"_Le Tomb_, right? Hate that one. Hate Ravel, in general."

"Really," Tony asked, surprised. "It's gorgeous to my ears, at least."

"It's French," Bassoon Trench Coat replied, as if obvious. "French harmonies. They don't sit well with me."

"_La valse_? Great bassoon introduction."

"Hm. Some high notes, whatever. I could hit those notes when I was eight and chewing three sticks of gum."

"What about Mozart?"

"The concerto? Please, no good came of the bassoon until Stravinsky."

Tony scoffed. Of course, every bassoon player either loves or hates Stravinsky. You could judge a good bassoonist just based on their reaction to his name. A good one responds with fear. An inexperienced one responds with bravado.

"Anthony Stark!"

"Godspeed," she smirked. "Don't fuck Ravel up."

"As if I could," Tony shot back.

He grabbed his backpack and entered the audition room, the earlier unjustified fears dissipated by Bassoon Trench Coat's bantering. He turned up the Tony Stark patented charm, and walked in with a smile. Never walk in without a smile.

* * *

Four old guys hunkered around short table inside a bland room with non-reflective panels arranged on the walls. Old doesn't quite describe it… they looked more like pale pillars of dust two puffs from disintegrating. Tony was afraid to even breathe in the room, let alone blast out what most people describe as "the song duck". Tony set his scores on the piano in front of the accompanist, and introduced himself.

"I'm Tony Stark, on oboe. I'll be playing the first movement of Mozart's Oboe Concerto and Ravel's _Le Tombeau de Couperin_, first movement."

The four men nodded and gestured Tony to proceed.

"Finishing with Ravel, got it," the second-to-the-left man croaked. "Go ahead."

As with every audition, you must show your range. Tony prided himself on having great tongue control (from practice in less wholesome activities) and a set of lungs that could power through one, two minute holds. He fingered up the chromatic scale, scraping the high F without a chip before sailing back down to a resounding B .

The judges scratched out a few notes on their legal pads, then one by one, looked up at Tony, acknowledging him to proceed. He began with the Mozart.

This was by far the more challenging of the two. Talk to any musician, ask them what they considered to be the most difficult composer, and eight times out of ten, they'll spew out Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. The oboe concerto, in C major, later reworked into a flute concerto in D by Mozart, developed into one of the most important concerti for both instruments over the years. The beautiful writing, the soaring melodies, and the sudden transitions into triple time are extremely difficult to execute perfectly, as all of Mozart's music calls. Every single note in the register has to sound pure and clean, and you can't hide a single mistake. It's a Mozart concerto. What are you going to do?

Tony cracked an F. He winced internally but continued playing. The final trill came, back to a C, and he licked his dry lips, the piano carrying out the rest of the movement. He nodded to the accompanist, who flipped to the Ravel. This was going to be good.

_Le Tombeau de Couperin_, written by Maurice Ravel (famous for pieces such as _Boléro_, _La Valse_, and _Daphnis et Chloë_) in memoriam for friends lost in WWI, was a tribute to one of the most influential families of Baroque composers and performers. Originally scored for piano, Ravel orchestratedfour movements of the six-movement piano solo, the brilliance and color of the late-Romantic era orchestra taken into full effect here. The opening, notorious among oboists for requiring long, sustained breaths and insanely quick keywork, has earned a spot among audition pieces and is a famous trip-up spot.

Tony swelled into the first sequence, trilling the notes a tad on the late side, but still perfectly acceptable. He eased back on the reed, allowing the notes to fall on the darker, warmer side. Most recordings and performances attack each note in the beginning—he wanted a softer tone. The piece was relatively short, only about three minutes at his tempo. He concluded with the final trill, a short one that must be in perfect time. He released the note, letting the breath stop fly out of the bell and ring around the room before taking the reed out of his mouth.

He didn't chip or gurgle any notes, nothing flew sharp or flat. Tony allowed himself a little grin of satisfaction after he finished. After bowing, Tony collected the music from the piano and snuck a little glance at the notes as he passed by the table. _Solid tone_, _sustained notes don't peter_, _attacks clean_, _clean keywork_, _forked F very solid_, _expressive_, _not an asshole_. He smiled ironically at the last one. That one was a lie.

Tony cleaned and put his oboe away. He pushed open the door, seeing Bassoon Trench Coat lady still sitting there, bassoon assembled and her reed soaking in a cup. He punched the elevator button to go down.

"How'd it go?"

"Fine. I nailed the Ravel."

"Anyone can nail the Ravel."

"You nail the Ravel."

"I will."

The lift rattled to a stop in front of him and dinged. The door slid open. Tony's eyebrows climbed a few inches at the man standing in front of him, harried-looking, a glockenspiel in his arm and a snare drum by his side.

"Excuse me, could you help—"

Oh God.

_Hi, I'm Tony's hot, blonde, hunky one night stand, and I'll be playing percussion_.


End file.
